I check everything. There’s not so much as a mail-order catalog out of place. It doesn’t matter; I feel victimized while more than one scenario runs through my head. Did he or they search my private papers? God, did they go through my underwear drawer? What about planting a hidden camera or listening device?
Assholes! And the biggest one being Moon himself.
After my apartment thug walks out, I immediately remove my gun, jam the magazine home, and load a round in the chamber. The gun remains in my hand as I check the apartment. Moon’s phone and my camera remain on the counter in my tiny kitchen. I slipped my phone into my back pocket at the beginning of my search.
Now I’m finished, though still angry. I walk to Moon’s phone, holster my gun to keep it close because I’m still unnerved, and start examining the iPhone. No contacts, no old text messages or voicemails—it’s clean. Hell, I can tell it’s brand new. I go through the apps to see if there’s anything on the phone that I need to worry about. Then I check for hidden apps and discover nothing. Last, I turn off the location feature.
Damn him. I don’t want a phone so he can contact me. I owe him nothing and don’t want him to call.
The phone in question buzzes in my hand and I jump. No, that wasn’t a small screech, I swear. I look down and see that it’s a text message.
Private number
Nothing in your home was
touched or examined. The
possibility of Dandridge
finding you was slim but
I felt it important to protect
your home until you arrived.
This phone will not track you
if you turn off the tracking
feature. I’m a very busy man
but I will take the time to
call you.
Lovely. Just what I need. And dammit I shouldn’t trust that Moon didn’t have my apartment searched or bugged. It kills me that I do. Stupid but true. My headache is reaching greater heights, so I down a few over-the-counter pain relievers. The ones Moon gave me helped a bit and I have no wooziness so I know they weren’t a narcotic. Possibly acetaminophen, better known as Tylenol. My choice is ibuprofen so I don’t risk acetaminophen overdose, not a pretty death. I release a long breath into the warm apartment air after swallowing the tablets and walk to the thermostat. I turn the air from ninety to eighty-four and gaze around my small living room.
It doubles as my office. I have a loveseat that I bought at a thrift store, a forty-two inch flat-screen bought on super clearance, and a $10 end table from a garage sale. They’re the only items that give the room an actual “living room” quality. A large desk with a cheap desk chair sit against the far wall and two, three-foot, locked filing cabinets stand to one side. While conducting my apartment search, I checked that the locks weren’t tampered with, but I didn’t check for the hidden keys. No cookie jar or coat pocket for me. For $5.99, I ordered a wall outlet safe that fits perfectly behind the wall plate. It looks like a wall electrical outlet and takes a specifically designed hexagon screwdriver key to open. The screwdriver is in my kitchen junk drawer along with several Philips and flat heads. I walk to the drawer, grab the hexagon, and snag my camera before I walk to the small wall safe. I push my emergency cash aside and grab the cabinet keys. I unlock the cabinet closest to my desk and pull out the file I need.
Penny Dandridge is written at the top. I sit down at my desk and open my laptop so I can download the pictures from my camera. They’re good and complete the job. I copy them to a thumb drive that I’ll give to Penny after I make an appointment with her. I should do that now, at least call her, but I need to lie down. I head to my loveseat and curl up, resting my head on a small throw pillow and close my eyes.
Sometime later a buzzing noise from my kitchen rouses me. I stand and the room tilts. It takes a moment for my equilibrium to return. My headache is thankfully gone. I touch the knot at the back of my head, which is still sore. I’ll live. I head to the kitchen counter and see that Moon texted me again, but this time his number isn’t blocked.
602-555-3142
You have a slight
concussion and need
to be woken throughout
the night. I’ll be checking
in every hour and expect
a return text or you’ll
have one of my men at
your door.
Oh yea? I should make him send one of those men. I refuse to think that this is compassionate or any kind of sweet. It’s control. I haven’t the foggiest idea what to do about it.
I decide to pick my battles. First, I program Moon’s number into contacts under the name aka Criminal.
Thank you for your
concern, unnecessary
but I’ll text back.
He doesn’t bother responding. I head to the bathroom, remove my clothes, and take a lukewarm shower using just the designated cold water. It’s a Phoenix summer thing. Cold water is lukewarm here, so why bother with the hot setting? After I’m washed and feeling better than I have since waking up in Moon’s compound, I head to my bedroom with my dirty clothes, gun, and phones. I pull on my favorite night shirt that I won in a radio contest a few years ago. It’s white with black lettering that says, “Rock-n-Roll Desert Nights,” and has the radio station logo below the words.
I place Moon’s phone, my phone, and my gun on the nightstand beside the bed and then push back the cotton comforter and climb between the sheets. Although it’s after eight at night, the sun continues shining outside. No problem. I’m asleep in minutes, my rackety ceiling fan creating the background noise I’ve grown accustomed to.
I groggily reply to Moon’s texts every hour throughout the night. I type only one word, Alive, and then instantly fall back to sleep.